


Antiques

by GraphiteFox



Series: Red Rover [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry forces Merlin to go antiquing with him as payback for destroying his cat collection.  There’s a bit with feelings but mainly just grumpy Merlin, forced antiquing, and hand holding.</p>
<p>Sequel to Mementos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antiques

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I just wanted domestic fluff with a good amount of feelings. This is completely self-serving and I can't be bothered about it.

                Merlin can count on both hands how many times he and Harry have gone out together for non-work-related reasons. It’s simple to explain: predominantly a mess of scheduling, or the fact that they’d rather spend their brief time off together in bed, or even that Harry is a good cook despite his laziness so why bother going out when he can cook a fine meal for them in the comfort of Merlin’s flat? Meals that are usually followed by some rigorous activity involving a bed or a sofa (or the dining table, but only that one time).

                Merlin is quite happy with the thought of spending this Sunday mostly in bed with a pause for a lazy brunch, but Harry has other ideas. He still hasn’t quite forgiven Merlin for the wanton destruction of his cat collection, so when he announces that they’re going to spend the day antiquing, Merlin can’t really avoid it.

                That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. He grumbles a bit as they dress, and passive-aggressively glares at their reflections in the bathroom mirror, but Harry ignores him. Harry’s wound is still healing and looks horrific, so Merlin helps tape on a fresh bandage. “Best not to scare the children,” Harry says, but Merlin suspects he’s self-conscious of it. After pressing a light kiss to the bandage, Merlin returns to his grumbling.

                His lazy brunch becomes toast and tea; he briefly wishes they were at Harry’s flat so he could brush the crumbs around. He’s not childish enough to make a mess in his own home just to spite Harry, so the crumbs are swept up, the cups are rinsed, and they’re off.

                Harry takes him to a small, clean shop that mixes antiques with local crafts. It doesn’t have the overcrowded atmosphere that Merlin hates about standard antique shops, all the items balanced precariously on one another, daring you to even breathe at them before it all collapses. He’s not particularly ungainly, but those shops transform him into an anxious wreck with too many arms and legs that are destined to break something. This, on the other hand, is almost relaxing.

                Harry immediately points to an elaborate vase. “You have space on that side table in the living room.”

                “No,” Merlin says immediately, grimacing. “Buy it for yourself if you must. I don’t need a vase.”

                “How am I supposed to bring you flowers then?” Harry asks with a smile, before turning away to survey some tacky art.

                They wander together at first, Harry pointing out various objects—a lamp, a hand-painted teacup, a partially anthropomorphized fish statue—and Merlin vetoing each. His home is practical. He’s hardly ever there and so why collect items that serve no actual purpose? Besides, he thinks to himself, when he dies, emptying his flat will be easy.

                Harry has been in fine form since they’ve entered, taking every opportunity to brush up against Merlin, or caress his wrist, or lean in far closer than necessary when speaking. The salesgirl’s eyes are _gleaming_ as she watches them, and Merlin despairs of his partner’s behavior. Public displays of affection have always made him uncomfortable, and Harry has always taken advantage of this.

                “I’m going to look over here,” he says, taking Harry’s hand off his wrist. He can see the amusement in the older man’s face and scowls. It’s not a large shop, but still Merlin puts himself as far away from Harry as he can manage.

                A decorative wooden spoon catches his eye, if only for the Arabic inscription on the handle. It reminds him of one of his first missions with Harry. They were foiling a weapons drop in Morocco in the middle of July. Merlin was still fresh but Harry had all of one full year of field experience under his belt and acted like a veteran. Merlin had been sweating from both the heat and nerves, trying desperately not to punch the arrogant prat beside him when it all went to shit.

                The fight had gone well at first. Harry _was_ as good as he bragged, though that only irritated Merlin even more. Then a grenade separated them and put Merlin in the path of more guns than he could reasonably handle on his own.

                He’d been crouched down, about to take a bullet right in his face. Shortest appointment ever. Instead he found himself face down in dirt while Harry caught the bullet with his back.

                After the fight, Merlin had fumbled over apologies and desperate attempts to dress the older man’s wounds, but Harry had only laughed and reminded him that the suits were bulletproof. Other than a nasty bruise, it hadn’t hurt him.

                It had hurt Merlin though, if only metaphorically, and Harry’s gallant response had endeared him.

                For all his ego, Harry has always been kind about Merlin’s mistakes.

                He can hear the tap of approaching oxfords.

                “Ah,” Harry begins, but Merlin cuts him off. “I don’t need a _spoon_ , Harry.”

                “If you’re going to be impossible,” Harry murmurs, and wanders several paces away again.

                “Practical,” Merlin corrects him under his breath. He surveys the remaining tables, a mix of jewelry and candles and odd baubles.

                Spying a pair of silver earrings--thin pressed studs with dangling teardrop Swarovski crystals—he takes them, turning them back and forth in the light.

                Harry leans over his shoulder to get a better look, pressing his chest against Merlin’s back and surreptitiously resting a hand on his bum.

                “ _Harry_.”

                “You’d have to get your ears pierced,” he responds, sliding his hand down.

                “Back up you wanker.”

                Harry hums in amusement, the slight puff of air tickling Merlin’s neck. Then the offending hand and its owner are gone, now feigning interest in a sequined dress of questionable taste.

                “I was thinking they’d be a good congratulatory gift for our Lancelot,” Merlin says, sounding as ruffled as he feels.

                “Percival already dotes on her,” Harry teases. “Are you playing favorites?”

                Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean like you dote on Eggsy? An entire suit, which you had Andrew rush, all of which came out of your own pocket because he wasn’t yet confirmed. What else…oh yes, the monogrammed bathrobe, the set of silk handkerchiefs, the—“

                Harry holds up his hand and inclines his head in defeat. “Enough. You’ve made your point.”

                Merlin allows himself to grin. It’s not often he wins against Harry and rarely does he get to enjoy it. “I’m getting the earrings.”

                “We came here for _you_ ,” Harry reminds him.

                “No, we came here to sate your insatiable need for stuff.”

                Harry doesn’t respond, so Merlin considers this a second win.

                The salesgirl is painfully friendly and keeps smiling so widely at them that Merlin knows she’s seen Harry touch his bum. She flicks her gaze back and forth between them, surveying Harry’s polite amusement and Merlin’s scowl. He’s visibly relieved when she hands him the small wrapped box.

                The earrings fit into his pocket. He’ll have to find something for Eggsy now, to be fair. They stroll along the street in silence for a few minutes, Merlin still contemplating what to get their newest member that Harry hasn’t already gotten him.

                “There’s another shop three blocks up. Perhaps you’ll find something of interest there.”

                Merlin sighs. “What this about, Harry? You’ve been trying to get me to buy things all day. My place is fine the way it is.”

                “You could be a little less practical,” Harry tells him.

                “Hey, I kept the cat,” he protests. “I’d rather look at people than objects.”

                “We’re a couple of antiques ourselves, I suppose,” Harry says, sounding a bit distant.

                “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m four years your junior.”

                “Strange,” responds Harry, this time with a twist of a smile, “given your penchant for mothering.”

                It’s a joke, he knows it’s a joke, and yet he’s been so irritable today that the words just burst from his mouth. “I wouldn’t have to mother you if you’d stop getting yourself shot!”

                A couple of people glance at them, making Merlin bristle. They’ve stopped walking now and are standing on the sidewalk facing each other. Merlin winces at the bandage on Harry’s forehead like he’s seeing it for the first time again. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

                “It’s all right,” Harry says, but his smile has faded. “I think we’re all still adjusting.” He rubs at his cheek, which is probably still sore from his reunion with Eggsy. Now _that_ had been a sight: Eggsy running at Harry with his arms wide, only to haul off and punch him right in the face. Then the boy was crying and swearing and apologizing in alternate breaths and Merlin had to fight not to laugh at the desperate look on Harry’s face.

                Now though, Harry looks so vulnerable, and suddenly Merlin wishes he’d said yes to that horrible vase, or the spoon, or anything. He wishes he’d realized sooner what the outing was really about: an attempt at normalcy, an attempt at returning to a world that was almost ripped away.

                He takes a step closer. “That was unkind of me. It wasn’t your fault.”

                Harry makes a slight humming sound before replying, “It wasn’t your fault either, you know.”

                He’s never spoken about his guilt to Harry, how after V-day, after Eggsy and Roxy had left, Merlin had simply wept. He’d wept for a lot of reasons—Lancelot, Harry, Arthur’s betrayal and the sheer magnitude of the situation facing him—but mostly for Harry. He’d been there almost every time Harry had been injured in the field, and he’d always found some way to rescue him.

                And yet when Harry had needed to be rescued the most, Merlin had sat still in his chair and watched Valentine put a bullet in Harry’s head. It’s all he thinks about most days and the thought of Harry going back into the field terrifies him.

                “How did you know?” he asks, his voice thick. His head feels heavy. Harry holds his hand out, palm up, and this time Merlin doesn’t hesitate to take it, onlookers be damned.

                “Because I know you,” Harry says, and _damnit_ , he’s right. Harry knows everything about him: what makes him angry, what makes him vulnerable, what makes him aroused. The way he takes his tea and his favorite brand of biscuits. How he likes the sheets folded down at just the right length so they come all the way up to his neck when he pulls them up.

                He knows things about Harry, too. He knows there’s a weak spot on Harry’s neck that when nibbled, induces the most fantastic sounds. He knows that Harry would rather drink beer than scotch, that he has an ego problem even after twenty-five years of service, and that he loves to have the last word.

                Merlin knows that he loves Harry, and he needs Harry to know this, too.

                So he leans forward and kisses Harry once, twice, feeling almost shy. It’s like being a teenager again, all nerves and hormones. He’s sure his face is red. Harry has the courtesy to cover up his surprise quickly, replacing it with a lazy grin.

                “How scandalous.”

                “Shut up,” Merlin mutters, but his hand is still holding Harry’s so he squeezes it briefly. “Are people looking?”

                “That’s the point,” Harry teases him. “They’re supposed to look and despair.”

                “Dramatic, much?”

                “Who’s the one who kissed me on a crowded street?”

                He does it again, if only to shut Harry up, slower this time, a little less anxious.

                “Now if you’re done shopping, I’d very much like to return home,” he says.

                Harry takes their intertwined hands and tucks them into his coat pocket. “Lunch first.”

+

                The vase ends up on Merlin’s side table, as Harry suggested, and for the first time in his life, Merlin receives a bouquet of flowers, because Harry is nothing if not a man of his word, and a colossal fucking prat.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I will be writing about the mission in Morocco, if anyone is interested. :)
> 
> There is a fantastic vintage/local antique shop near where I live that this is based on. It’s very clean and stylish and I couldn’t help but picture Harry fitting in perfectly. And knowing how much Merlin hates clutter, he’d be kind and take Merlin to an organized shop instead.


End file.
